Imagine Me and You
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: While dealing with the fallout of revelations caused by the hypnosis, Lizzie has dreams of a future where she and Red have a life together. [The Family Man AU. WIP. Lizzington.]
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: *squeals* I am so ungodly excited about starting this multi-chapter piece. I received a lot of support from the fan base when I conceived the idea of combining the concept of the The Family Man and Lizzington, but now that I've gotten a decent outline and written the first few chapters, I am literally salivating to have y'all read it. So without further adieu, disclaimed and all, here is the first chapter!**_

_**Enjoy, lovelies.**_

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She forgets.

The paramedic butterflies the cut on her brow from the outline of Braxton's knuckles and Don talks in soothing drawls to her, leads her away in a safety blanket, and there's an in-between where Red tries to make her understand, but all she can _do _is understand, and she wishes there were mind-numbing drugs for her right up until she comprehends that the mind-altering drugs have made her this way, have made her life split and crack open like the bitter earth for reaping.

Red tries to give her sweet words when all she truly understands is that he's held her time and time again, held her in his arms like he could be a safe place, and she believed he was a safe place. She believed he loved her, she did. She thought all the talks about fish and lines in the sand meant something, meant that he was there for her, that he was the only person in which she could place her trust, but no. No, she was a fool. And now everything hurts, tilts sideways at an odd angle, and Ressler is taking her back to the apartment.

Thank God, thank God: Ressler isn't one for small talk.

But she had forgotten, what with the chaos and the white flashlights blinding her swollen eyes, what with _don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me because if you do I might shatter, _she had forgotten—

She forgets that the apartment is empty, that the apartment is not a home, that the apartment might as well be a hotel, but the expensive kind that Red would put her up in. Funny, that before, she thought he was being affectionate by paying for her only the best, pampering her like a crush, almost courting her; cluing her in as only a billionaire criminal could, but no. He likely felt obligated, and it's funny that he's her asset, but she has been his true obligation, all along. The golden goose, in the flesh. Well.

Well, it's funny, is all.

She forgets that the apartment is empty, so when Don sees her through the door and gently bids her goodnight, and she is left to surround herself in silence, in the bleakness that can only bely the fact she has nothing but herself to rely, well.

The moment she's alone in her apartment, Lizzie clasps a trembling hand over her mouth and sobs brokenly.

/

The bunny brings back memories of Sam, of five years old. She turns it in her hands, cheeks blotchy and puffed from crying, and remembers the way he'd tuck her in each night, kiss her forehead to tell her it would all be alright. She remembers the way Red did something similar, after she'd realized the truth about Tom, and it sends shivers down her spine that even though Red killed her father, even though Red has done terrible, hurtful things, knowing that Red's love was a figment of her imagination, a fallacy, heavies her heart with grief more than knowing he'd smothered her father in a random hospital room. Twisted, she is. Fucked up.

What's more twisted is finding the small, sewn material of her rabbit. An autopsy of the stuffed animal confirms, and in the dim light of her bathroom cast-off on her bed, she turns the technology in her hand as if it is the answer to every riddle, to every lie.

Lizzie knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the thing in her hand could hurt Red.

This knowledge does not fill her with satisfaction, or a taste for revenge.

Instead, a weight carries in the back of her throat, the hollow of her eyes, the knot of her stomach. A sinking, a knowing. A disgust.

A dreading.

/

The sleep pants cling to her thighs like a second skin, and in the darkness, she lies awake for too long. She knows sleep will not find her easy, not with the ruminating, the turning over of half-memories; she thinks, just before she closes her eyes, that it was only a week ago that she fantasized that Red was beside, holding her. "It's alright, Lizzie. There's nothing wrong with you."

Forehead kisses, the like. It was only a week ago that she thought he might love her.

It was only a week ago that she thought she might love him.

Lizzie thinks about physically turning the short hand on a clock backward, and then she closes her eyes.

/

.

.

.

.

.

A baby is crying.

Sharp, staccato mewls pierce the air, and Lizzie's consciousness drifts in slowly even through the chaos, fractured details:

White, white bed sheets, soft. Blankets. White blankets. Light, yellow light, through curtains, maybe, blinking eyelids. Tired, Lizzie is so tired, and she just fell asleep, didn't she? Why is she already waking up? Why is she—

Little hands probe at her face, and in the moment it takes Lizzie too recognize this, her body goes ramrod still, eyes snapping open and fixing deafeningly fast on whatever is touching, whatever is in her apartment. No.

No, she's not in her apartment.

"Oh my god," Lizzie mouths, but she's caught like a terrified animal, and the words never actually become audible. She's frozen, she's floundering.

"Mommy."

Liz gulps, and if possible, her eyes stretch further open.

Comical.

She probably looks _hilarious, _but—

A petite child rests her tiny hand on her knees, where she's shifted forward to gauge every response of her mother. Sand colored curls, light eyes, full cheeks—

But no, no.

The child looks like Red. The child look _just like_ Red. This is Red's child, and Lizzie's subconscious tells her this, screams this, and then—

"Mommy," the kid whines, face contorting into utter annoyance.

There's still a baby screaming, somewhere.

"Sammy's crying, and you promised you'd make pancakes today."

Lizzie adjusts to situate herself into a sitting position, orienting herself with the silk pajamas, the expensive material. The luxurious room that she doesn't recognize, and oh, oh, _oh. _Lizzie's mouth is dry, her eyes darting, wild. The little girl is suddenly very quiet, and Lizzie looks over to realize the small child is eyeing her suspiciously—

No, no.

Worriedly.

"Mommy," comes a whisper, sweet and soft.

The baby monitor that Lizzie spots crackles as the baby's cries let up for a few seconds.

"Mommy, did you have a bad dream?"

The concern darkens the tiny orbs, colors them, and her breath is taken away by how much this offspring does resemble the man that's upturned her life. The mannerisms are uncanny, and a wave of something akin to instinct blows through her when she schools her features and attempts to speak as coherently as she can muster.

"No," she answers, and it's, by some grace of God, steady. "I didn't have a bad dream. Just—

She struggles to present a good _anything. _

"I had a weird dream," she restates, nodding shakily. "I," she laughs, off kilter. "I almost don't remember who I am. Who are _you?" _she bursts out, trying to paste a smile on her face.

She pokes at the little girl's stomach, and on cue, the girl chokes with giggles.

"I'm _Rory!" _

Rory falls sideways, her bangs hanging down in her eyes. She grins lopsidedly at her mother.

"You're silly, Momma," Rory squints, and throws her arms around Lizzie's neck.

A sweet peck warms Lizzie's cheek, and Lizzie just—

She was going to be a mother to a baby, once. Motherhood isn't an idea entirely foreign to Lizzie. So, when Lizzie melts at the little girl kissing her cheek, giving affection, it's not entirely unwarranted. Because it's perfect, in some way.

It's perfect, Lizzie realizes.

Rory is perfect, with her happiness, and her beautiful laughter like bells, peeling bells, and her presence of warmth, and oh. Oh, this is a dream, isn't it? She's been aware a dream is a dream before, but in this particular situation Lizzie realizes how sad she is to know it will end soon.

The baby starts crying again.

Sammy.

Rory had said the baby's name was Sammy.

Reluctantly, Liz shifts to stand, taking note of everything situated, scanning for wedding pictures, for anything that could give background. The other side of the bed is undisturbed, but Rory is clearly Raymond Reddington's daughter. Two and two does not add up.

Where's Red, in this dream?

Is he getting ready to stroll through the door, a plate of freshly cooked pancakes in his hands? No. The Concierge of Crime doesn't cook, or at least, Lizzie imagines he'd pay somebody to do that for him. There's a silk robe laying over a chair, and Lizzie throws it on, starts toward the sound of the distressed toddler. Suddenly, the urgency of hearing the little one in such a state makes her nervous, makes her upset.

Everything is furnished well, as if it's been well-lived in, well loved. In this dream, she and Red live large, but the hardwoods in the hallway are warmed beneath her feet, and the scent in the air permeates her nostrils achingly drowning, like sinking toes into sand. This is home.

These hallways are so familiar she could almost close her eyes and walk them, yet when she reaches the nursery at the end of the other, pastel blue and yellow—

Lizzie stares into her son's room, gulps.

She pads the first two or three feet into the area and as soon as he spots her, the baby gurgles, sniffles. His expression morphs into one of recognition. He babbles, and then—

He reaches out for her.

Something like a whimper tears through her lips. Lizzie's chest feels tight when she wanders closer, closer, to rest her hands on the edge of the crib, peer into the hand-crafted sleeper. A rocking chair waits in the corner. She was going to be a mother to a little girl, once, before, with Tom.

The little boy—

Sammy, his name is Sammy.

Sam.

Sam has Red's eyes too, even if she _does _see herself in the child's features.

Toothless, he smiles, meaty fists grappling for her robe. Lizzie lifts him up into her arms, positions him on her hip. His weight is familiar, but the funny thing about this dream is that Lizzie knows she has never, ever done this before. She couldn't have. But the baby reacts on instinct, laying his ear flat against her heart, cuddling into her, and it's melting again. It's wanting this.

She wants this so bad, and she hadn't even realized it until this moment.

The fact that Red's probably (in her soul, she knows, she knows) their father doesn't seem to matter.

Or maybe it does.

The nightlight in the nursery the only beacon, Lizzie closes her eyes and leans in to inhale his scent; baby powder, lotion. Perfect, again.

Lizzie thinks she's about to wake up.

.

.

.

.

She doesn't.

Instead, tiny feet bound across the floor of the hallway, skid to a stop.

"Mommy," Rory's voice comes, impatient.

Lizzie looks up, and the baby, hearing his sister's voice, looks up too.

"_Pancakes._"

/

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N- Happy Blacklist Thursday! THANK YOU to the amazing reviews I have received thus far! The more I get the faster I generally pop out chapters, so keep that in mind. I am open to suggestions and criticism, and I really do hope you enjoy this chapter!_

_Disclaimed._

* * *

A baby with Red's eyes slung upon her hip, a little girl with Red's eyes toddling along, a tattered blanket in her tiny hand—

They make their way through a house she's never seen before, but somehow knows. Down the hallway, down a flight of carpeted stairs. Everything smells clean, but lived in. Home. This is a home, and this is a dream.

This is a dream, but she's not waking up.

Sammy, the baby with Red's eyes, Red's baby, Red's child, her child— Sammy babbles in her ear, chubby fists tangled up in her hair. Dim, yellow light sparks up at the motion of bodies. Hardwood floors downstairs, a chandelier in the dining room. There's a toy plane on the floor. A box of Legos. Granite countertops in the kitchen that comes into view, and oh.

Oh, there's a high chair, and a sippy cup in the sink.

Oh, she's not waking _up. _

Lizzie moves on instinct, settles the sturdy weight of the smaller child into the plastic contraption before turning to just _look, _just take in the kitchen island, and the cabinets, and the hardware. Double oven. Luxury refrigerator.

Rory— the girl's name is Rory— rubs her eyes, tangled blonde locks a nest around her flushed cheeks. "Mommy, I'm still tired," she whines, laying her head down on the table and groaning over-dramatically. Liz startles, winces at the word, the word that's she's never been in her life, not up until she went to sleep and awoke in this strange dream where she's their _mother, _and Liz unintentionally lets her hand drop, work under her expensive sleep shirt. Finds indentations in the soft skin.

Stretch marks.

Proof.

Lizzie closes her eyes and her entire body sways.

And then—

Sammy squeals, smacking his hands upon the tray in front of himself with vigor. It's enough to pull Liz back to this strange reality that isn't actually reality, and she gulps, glancing about the kitchen.

Pancakes. She's supposed to be making her daughter— Rory, her daughter's name is Rory in this discombobulating world—she's supposed to be making her daughter pancakes for breakfast. Liz has no earthly idea where the ingredients for batter are. She knows the ingredients— eggs, milk, flour, baking soda. But there's so many cabinets. So many cabinets. She'll hunt like a crazy person if she isn't guided. She's crazy. She's _crazy. _

After all, in her real world, she _has _just undergone hypnosis. Mind control. Perhaps this world is a concoction of fantasy. A fantasy in which she has Raymond Reddington's children. What a universe.

Rory, yawning and smacking her lips, breaks her from the train of thought.

Right. Pancakes.

"Hey," she breathes out, and even if her voice cracks, she hopes Rory is too absorbed in trying to get back to sleep to notice. "Do you want to help me make them?"

Rory's head shoots up, over-zealous to be included in activities deemed grown-up. She grins, darts over to stand beside Liz.

"Really, Mommy?"

Lizzie swallows again, a lump in her throat.

"Really."

Without further prodding, Rory starts to the refrigerator, opens it with a heave of her dainty body.

They must make pancakes often, even if Rory acts like they're a treat.

In this world, Liz notes, her-other-self invests in ready-to-pour.

/

"I can feed Bubby too," the girl squeaks once the mix is browning on the stove.

Lizzie watches Rory grab a banana from a basket on the counter, unpeel it. Break it apart into the most considerate of pieces.

Sammy claps his hands together and reaches, and Lizzie watches his excitement. Red. Oh, oh Red.

Where's Red?

Why isn't he seeing this?

They have babies, and they're the most adorable things in the world, and even if she's still furious with him, Lizzie looks at the beings in front of her and feels weightless, feels drifting.

"Such a good big sister," she encourages without pausing. "You're such a good big sister."

/

The clock on the microwave informs half past six while Rory eats, perched within the breakfast nook, her eyed glued to a small flat screen television within her line of sight. Cartoons. Cartoons on a flight screen. There's Bugs Bunny in this world, apparently. In this world, Lizzie is exorbitant with her money enough to have obtained a flat screen television in her kitchen. Lizzie's mouth is dry and her hands shake as she creeps away, wary to leave the children alone, but—

She doesn't have to venture far.

There, on a small table crested below a key holder and coat hanger, is a black purse.

Lizzie licks her lips and jerks it into her grasp, opening it with shaking hands, wandering back to the humungous island, the children with Red's eyes. Within the buttery leather of Coach, she finds nothing akin to her own habitat, to her usual.

A travel pack of baby wipes, a pen.

Her fingers fall upon a butterfly shaped hair bow, and she shudders. Begging, _wake up, wake up, wake up. _

Her eyes drift to the baby boy stuffing his face with squishy fruit, his hair sticking up in tufts.

By the grace of God, she finds her wallet.

It's equally as expensive-looking as the purse, no Bureau salary to bring her things like this in real life. Not that she doesn't have a taste for finer things. Not that she's never dreamed of having a home like this. It's just that she expected she fully comprehend having come about it. And now she's stuck in this world where it's all fallen in her lap, and Lizzie gets the clasp open, narrows her eyes.

Stops.

The picture is of her, sure. It's a driver's license with her face on it, but.

But her name isn't Elizabeth Reddington, right?

Wrong. She would have at least expected, if this was some fantasy, to have adopted a new alias. She's allowed the notion to roam her mind of what he might do after The Blacklist is completed, but this is different. This is insane, and then, and then Lizzie finds the ultimate piece of bringing, among the platinum credit cards, among the school picture of Rory—

School pictures. Birthdays. Christmases. Parent-teacher conferences, and in this life she's doing it all with Red's last name attached to her first, and, oh.

There's a pocket-sized planner in her hands, suddenly. Blue with little yellow ducks contrasting the cover.

_2023-2024, _the planner reads.

You have to know that she's tried very hard, up until this point. She's kept it together as best she can.

She truly has.

But it's at that moment that Elizabeth Keen—

Or Elizabeth Reddington, as it may be—

Lizzie sinks to the kitchen floor, _wake up, wake up, wake up, _and from far away she can hear the television chiming Duffy Duck, can hear Rory giggling, and the sound is sweet, so sweet. She's going to vomit. She's going to scream. She's going to—

She can't have just forgotten eight years. It's not possible. It's not _possible. _

"Mommy?" Rory gasps, and Lizzie looks up from her disheveled state to see her daughter with her head cocked, standing a few feet away. The ragged blanket is still in her hands. When Lizzie was little, she'd had a blanket like that. Her daughter's face is too beautifully innocent to be twisted into such concern, but Lizzie looks at the child and sees Red again and again, knows the man's mannerisms like the back of her hand, these days. Lizzie's voice is hoarse when she speaks.

"Mommy doesn't feel very good," she supplies, trying to cover.

Rory takes a step forward, bottom lip wobbling dangerously, and Lizzie's breath leaves her as she realizes the girl's intention.

Lizzie holds open her arms, and Rory throws herself onto the floor, cuddling into her mother, face buried at her neck.

"Do you miss Daddy again?"

/

Lizzie's nostrils flare, and if possible, her chest grows tighter. She looks at her daughter, repeats the words the child mumbled once, twice, three times to herself, before she reaches the conclusion that she has no idea what they mean.

"Maybe if you'd call Daddy you'd feel better," Rory continues, unfazed by Lizzie's blank reaction.

_Call Daddy, _Lizzie repeats mentally. _If I call Red, I'll feel better. _

_Red isn't somewhere I can physically communicate with him. _

_Divorced. _

_We're—_

"Daddy's not allowed to go on a business trip ever again after this one," Rory jokes in the only way a little girl can, her cheeks scrunched, her dimples thick in her skin. "Huh, Momma?"

"You know, you might be right," Lizzie responds, even though she still doesn't understand.

Too many pieces. Too many puzzle pieces.

Red's on a business trip.

Red's coming back, is the bottom line, and Lizzie smiles a little at the thought even if she doesn't know why the emotions are coursing through her, eyeing her daughter dutifully. "Why don't you go get ready for school?" she suggests.

"Okay," Rory pulls herself limberly to her feet, turning her head of curls back in her mother's direction. "Do you want me to take the bus today?"

Lizzie realizes that she has _no idea _what city she's in with a lurching drone. "Yeah. Yeah, just for today. Are you going to make it?" Lizzie notes the time.

Rory's form stiffens as she looks at the clock, her tongue sticking out from between her little pink bud mouth as she attempts to concentrate enough to read the time. "Yes," she answers finally, seriously. "Mommy, it comes at three minutes after seven."

"You remembered? Wow," Lizzie compliments, cheeks warming. "What are you, twenty-five?"

That's a very Mom-ish thing to say, Lizzie thinks. She's trying to pretend that she's an actress and this is a role.

At least until she wakes up again.

She has to wake up.

"I'm six, Mommy," Rory laughs, and then wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Sammy stinks."

Lizzie's face falls.

Shit.

Pun intended.

/

Her-other-self is organized, but since Lizzie hasn't changed a baby's diaper since the fake relays at the baby shower once upon a time, a lifetime ago. Literally, nine years ago—

Apparently.

Apparently, too, Lizzie has a six year old daughter.

In the other world, the one she's from, reality— Lizzie is going to have a child within two years. Lizzie is going to get pregnant with Raymond Reddington's child by, what? 2017?

Sammy plays with his feet on the changing table, his chubby cheeks gummy and drool on his fists.

"Ma," he coos.

She'll have something like this by 2017, and half of that something will be from Red, a gift from Red.

Dreams of _what do you really want? _Dreams of hot nights, of bed sheets, of lacy panties— nothing has prepared her for this future, this alternate world. In a drawer within the large white cabinet, Sammy's clothes lay. She chooses a footy romper in a pale, pale blue, right off the top of the mass, and he is surprisingly calm when she gets him dressed, touches his angel-soft skin. Lizzie carries him as she wanders from his nursery through the hallway, back to the original master suite she'd awoken in.

She checks the closet first, finds it to be huge and stocked with anything she could imagine. Exquisite suits, shoes, gowns, but then she realizes what's missing, and Sammy plays with her hair while she narrows in on another door. Ventures over, opens it.

Red's clothes. Red's closet.

This—this area—is the only part of the house that smells like Red, and that strikes her funny, like a chill down her spine.

Everything seems untouched. Barren, even with the lines of shiny shoes, even with all the pretty dress shirts.

Lizzie takes a step out of it, bouncing Sammy, and shuts the door.

/

It lies on the bedside table, positioned elegantly within a dish.

Lizzie maneuvers the diamond into her hands and Sammy fondles it, babbles at the shine of the diamonds.

Stunning. The wedding ring is stunning, and her son seems to think so too when she slips it on her ring finger, heart pounding like horse hooves in her chest, her head, her ears, as she eyes it, take in every carat it must be.

Lizzie imagines a life where Red will kneel, will present this to her in a velvet box, and in the gentle light of morning, with a baby on her hip, a tear falls warm and wet down her cheek.

Oh, Red.

/

There's no wedding pictures anywhere, Lizzie realizes, ever conscious of the weight of metal on her finger. Rory kisses her goodbye, and Lizzie watches her daughter, her daughter, Rory is her _daughter—_

Lizzie watches the six year old go to the bus stop, clutches Sammy tighter in her arms.

She imagines a life where she does this every morning, coffee brewing, birds chirping.

What a life.

/

Documented, Lizzie knows. Lizzie knows she must have documented something. It's not within her character not to. So with her son occupied on the floor of the nursery, blocks, ABC blocks—

Lizzie digs around in his closet, finds what she's looking for after two, three minutes of searching.

The baby book is a gateway as much as the purse had been, as much as the planner had made her see reason, see fact. The cover is hand-crafted. The paper expensive, heavy. Within the confine of ribbon, on the first page, Lizzie finds the first, informative entry—

His name is Samuel Ray Reddington, and he was born on in the early hours of January 21st, 2022.

This picture showcased is not one of professional photography, bunnies and naked bottoms, thumb in mouth— no, Sammy is hooked up to machines. Sammy _was_ hooked up to machines. Premature birth. He couldn't breathe.

Lizzie studies the child interacting intelligently with his playthings on the floor, a weight on her shoulders, because came into this world not being able to breathe. Red must've been frantic.

The funny thing is, it isn't confirmed really, until the moment her eyes land upon the entry of a family tree.

Her name, in full.

Red's name, in full.

Parents.

Parents _together. _

There's an entry entailing why he was named as such, briefly mentioning Sam, how proud her would've been to see Sammy named after him. The thought makes tears prick at Lizzie's eyes again, the rollercoaster of emotions never ceasing, on and on, on and on. _"Your sister was named Aurora because your father thought she looked like a princess, but I looked into your eyes and knew you needed something far less whimsical," _Lizzie reads—

And Lizzie bursts into fiendish laughter, startling the year old boy entertained on the ground.

The section about pregnancy talks about cravings: macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes, tortellini.

Another section mentions, _"Your father found out your sister was a girl and cried, and when he found out you were a boy he laughed. Here's the secret: they were both from happiness."_

But the last entry makes her stop, makes her shoulders go back, the hair on the nape of her neck stand.

Lizzie's mouth parts, dries, as she soaks in that last bit of information, that last sentiment.

"_You and your sister were both accidents, Sam. But neither of you were ever mistakes. The moment I knew you existed, I wanted you. I don't know if I'm supposed to write this sort of thing down in a book like this, but I think you should know that on the days I find it very hard to forgive your father for everything that happened, I look at you, and I look at your sister, and all of the pain is very much worth it. You are worth every mess you'll ever make. I love you more than the moon and all the stars. Mom." _

A phone ringing makes her jump ten feet in the air, and Sammy reacts in the same manner.

He's been pleasant all morning, but something about the chime must off put him, because his expression morphs into one of pain.

He starts to cry, and the phone is ringing, and the baby book sits open in Lizzie's lap as fresh tears wet everything.

/

It was a number she doesn't recognize, obviously.

Lizzie thinks it might've been work.

She's probably got a job in this world. Bills to pay. People to see.

Lizzie positions Sammy in his high chair and doesn't care about any of it. She's still in her pajamas, even. The literal definition of no fucks to give, but she does care about making a smile edge from his elfin features. She cares about this, now. She might wake up soon. She might have to leave this, soon.

Around eleven, Lizzie barters over to the refrigerator and fishes out what looks like leftovers.

Tries it like it's the first time, which it is—

And she feeds her son mashed peas, never once flinches at the smell, because he loves it.

And even if she's just become aware of his existence, she loves him, too.

/

The mistake is when she lays him down for a nap.

She doesn't want to leave him in his crib, away from her, you understand?

So she tucks him against her chest in the master bedroom, pillows caged around them. Listens to his breathing deepen, his angelic face relaxing. So relaxing, and then the mistake has been made and she's comfortable and everything is warm and her baby is against her chest when she drifts off.

When she wakes up.

/

Lizzie's face feels hot and cold at the same time when she blinks awake in her own bedroom, empty, alone.

An empty apartment.

She's—

It's—

Lizzie whimpers, buries her face in the pillow.

Oh. Oh, _Sammy. _Rory. Sammy and Rory.

Sammy and Rory—

Don't exist.

They don't exist. She's so stupid. She's such an idiot, and they don't exist.

She really, really thought it was real, and she was in another world, one where everybody gets what they want and all she's ever wanted was happiness and a baby to love, to influence its life in a way she never became influenced, to rewrite the past, to love, to love—

Lizzie vows, in this moment— floundering and awake and all alone in her apartment at three in the morning— to forget she'd ever had the dream in the first place.

/

And then Red walks in like a storm with skin as she's talking to Aram about the device that hid in her childhood toy, and Lizzie looks at him and tries to shoo him away with cutting him off, with disconnecting, but truth be told:

Lizzie tells him they shouldn't talk outside the case because in this world the pain still burns within her veins, it's still fresh, but truth be told, truth be fucking told—

Lizzie looks at Red and she hears Rory's laughter all around her, music, music.

/

Red calls out to her at the hotel, "_Lizzie," _and she knows he's drunk from the smell on his breath, from the swagger, but his drunk smile is a photocopy of Sammy's gummy one, the one from her dream, from the other world, and it was real, it had to have been real, except it wasn't. It wasn't, and Lizzie orders room service and goes to bed early and there's a very small part of her that prays, that prays to a God she does not believe in, that she will fall asleep and awake in a world where she has a son and a daughter, and they are perfect, and her last name is Reddington.

Lizzie wakes in the morning having never dreamed at all.

/

She doesn't trust him.

He's hurt her and he knows it and he promised he wasn't like Tom, he promised he'd never lie to her, but he has.

The reality of this awful situation is that she looks and him and hears him say the world "fieldtrip" and thinks of a school-aged little girl, and she thinks about all of the possibilities that don't exist because he lies to her, because he's deceived her, and the silly thing about that stupid dream is that it could never exist in a world where he would only want an object, The Fulcrum.

Lizzie imagines in that other world, The Fulcrum never existed.

/

He tells her about a tango, and it's been two nights of restless sleep, and she's already on edge—

He tells her about negotiation, and she hates him because he does this to her, leaves her shaking and breaking in her own flesh, wilting at his voice, knowing how close they are, knowing that in another world if they had two children they'd made love beautiful enough to make life, and yes, it's a silly thought because Lizzie wants this to be all business, wants that other world to be this one. Wants it bad. So bad.

"What's wrong?" she inquires softly, puffing air, puffing resolve.

"Everything," he answers grimly, and yeah, she kind of agree.

/

When Raymond Reddington smacks the jar of water onto the table, Lizzie smiles because she can imagine the other world, where Red would threaten any boy that wanted Rory for a date, would burn down houses just to keep them safe—

Her, and Rory, and Sammy.

The smile falls when she reminds herself _she woke up, she woke up, she woke up. _

/

And then he goes and twists it, and she realizes that yes, he was playing her the whole time, playing the situation, and it hurts but they are burning beautifully, they are burning alive and she looks at him and he looks at her and he's smug because he knows she's caught in hating him but loving the hate, loving the burn.

Lizzie leaves Uzbekistan and does not sleep on the flight home, does not sleep during the cab ride back to her apartment.

When she finally falls fast asleep with her clothes on, splayed within the confines of her own bed, she sleeps like the dead.

/

She wakes up with a heave, with a sigh.

Contented. White blankets. Cotton. Egyptian cotton.

Lizzie comes to and in her alertness she adjusts her limbs accordingly and hurries into a standing position, to check, to know, to know, to know that this was real. This was real. Oh, this was _real. _

It's morning time, and the hallway is silent, the house is silent.

Lizzie pads across the hall, creaks open a door with a quick inhale, holding her breath.

Rory sleeps with her hair splayed across the pink pillows, her mouth fallen open.

Lizzie grins so hard it hurts.

.

.

.

tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: So...prepare for feels. Go ahead and batten down the hatches. All aboard the angst boat. Choo choo, beetches. Thank you SO much if you've read, reviewed, followed, or favorite. Keep it coming, folks. Disclaimed, and I hope you enjoy! :)_

* * *

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She hopes she doesn't wake him.

She hopes with everything in her that she doesn't disturb, but despite her reservations, she still can't help herself. It's instinct, this need to see him. Even this early in the morning, what with the light purple and barely there, sunrise and yearn all pent up. Lizzie closes her daughter's door as softly as she can before she moves on the balls of her feet to the place she knows holds something as unfathomable precious as the little girl with blond hair splayed across her pillow.

There's utter silence in the nursery.

Stillness. Sleeping.

His breathing is minuscule but there, and Lizzie creeps, creeps, until she can see the tiny chest rising and falling. Purple eyelids, impression of a cupid mouth. Red's mouth.

He's older than he was before, the other time she lived this life.

Larger, more proportioned. Still baby, but older.

A few months, at the very least.

In sleep, in laughter— and she can hear him laughing, even if he's still asleep, even if this dream was supposed to end the last time it was conceived, when she woke up—in the silence, she finds herself utterly composed at the idea of having children with Red, Raymond Reddington, in this alternate universe.

She's protective, is the thing.

Lizzie looks at her son— honey locks across his forehead, light blue, footy pajamas—and she leans in because she can't help herself. Rests one trembling hand over his moving, tangible chest. Life, before her. Life she created. Life she created with the one man in the entire universe, in any alternate world, too— the one her soul knows. The only man that's ever made her feel like intimacy doesn't have to mean sex.

Lizzie's cheeks heat, thinking about the implications of two children, though.

The ring that she knows resides in the master bedroom.

The meaning of marriage, of children, of a house in the—

Somewhere, an alarm starts going off.

"Crap," Lizzie hisses, darting away from the crib, out the door, closing it as quickly as she can.

Through the hallway, back to the bedroom—

There, on her nightstand, her phone screams. Lizzie fumbles with it in the still-dim lighting, realizing that in order to turn it off, she has to have her passcode.

"Crap," she says again, panic rising in her throat. It's only half past seven, and it's a Saturday. Lizzie prays. During one of the rare moments in her life, Elizabeth closes her eyes and prays, and when she opens them again, she enters in her passcode from the other universe, the one she's from, the one that's real—

The last four numbers of her social.

Praying, praying—

The sound halts, and Lizzie releases air she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Then—

Sammy's cries pierce the air, crackling through the baby monitor.

"_Crap."_

/

He doesn't quiet when she reaches him, not like last time. Sammy's precious face is scrunched uncomfortably, flushed, hot tears wetting his cheeks.

"I know," she says to him, sweetening the tone of her voice with sympathy as she lowers the bars of the crib. "It's a tragedy."

His short arms flail and reach for her even as she's hoisting up, careening him to lay flush against her shoulder. The shrieks weaken, morph into over-wrought sniffles. Hiccups. Then, finally, the infant buries his face in the delicate material of her nightgown and snorts.

At that, the edges of Lizzie's mouth quiver upward a bit.

"So dramatic," she whispers, rocking back and forth on her heels, relishing the feel of him, the smell of baby. Relishing holding him again, and dramatics runs in the family. Must be, because Liz closes her eyes and thinks upon every occasion that Red has told a story in the midst of tension, has made a gesture of grandeur even despite all the circumstances that most would shy from. Red is dramatic, and even though in that other world Lizzie knows she'd never admit it in a million years, she can admit it here.

Lizzie _adores _how dramatic Raymond Reddington is, and she adores his child, their child, and she watches Sammy, just watches him.

He finally lifts his head, blinks awake. Yawns, smacking his lips together.

"Mama."

A gummy grin paints across his petite features, as if to say, _good morning. _

The light is going from purple to orange and pink through the white, wooden blinds. Lizzie's eyes are adjusting, and even if this is only the second time she's ever seen this baby this early in the morning, Lizzie is already more than adjusted to the idea of waking to his toothless happiness, his reaching hands—every morning.

"Ready for some breakfast?" she asks him, pressing her lips to the softness of his hair without thought.

In response, he chortles. Not the giggle she remembers from the other morning, not light and airy and peeling bells like Rory. Deep. Warm. Sammy throws himself against her shoulder again, laughs in her ear.

Red's laugh.

He sounds like Red when he laughs, because he's Red's son, and—

Come to think of it, Lizzie loves Red's laughter, too.

If home had a sound, or something like that.

/

She turns on the news in the kitchen, finds the sacred planner.

It's Saturday, it seems, but unlike every other day in the week, unlike tomorrow, and any day after that—

Today is entirely blocked off.

Nothing planned.

Absolutely, starkly free.

The broadcaster on the television catches her attention, something the woman with too much hairspray in her hair says.

More puzzle pieces coming together, painting a bigger picture.

At least she's still in Washington.

At least, at the very least, she and Red haven't moved to someplace obscure in Arizona, in California— some state she doesn't know, has never lived in before. The weather is warm for September, the meteorologist says. It's half past six in the morning, and the first thing she does once she gets Sammy settled into his high-chair with a banana is wander back upstairs to find Rory, to open the door gently, stride in. Rory must be a heavy sleeper, because she barely stirs, never awoke to the sound of the alarm, earlier. Lizzie sleeps light, so this must come from Red, too. At least, maybe.

Lizzie wouldn't know.

The thought makes her swallow thickly.

"Hey," she prods, sinking down onto the queen bed, the pink blankets a sea around the limp body "It's time to wake up."

With a caressing, motherly touch, she tilts Rory into consciousness.

Rory's face crumples, eyes squeezing shut before they open, squint.

"Mommy? 'ts Saturday," Rory slurs, attempting to cover her face with a pillow.

Dramatic. Right.

"I know," Lizzie agrees, like she had with the little girl's brother. Something she can't put into words urges her to say what she says, do what she's doing. "But today we're going to do something special."

"What?" her little voice asks, curious but still half-delirious.

"You're going to have to wake up to find out," Lizzie prompts, as if she knows exactly what the trick is to waking up a six-year-old. Truth is, she's never done this before, but it's like she knows. Maybe it's because Rory is her daughter. Maybe it's because this kind of method is pure instinct.

Regardless, it works.

Rory pushes herself up and rubs her eyes sloppily, blond hair all tangled.

"What?" she hisses a little sharply, half-glaring at her mother.

"I don't know," comes Liz's laughing response. "It's a surprise. But what do you say we wake up and make breakfast together first? You and me, hmm? Pancakes or French toast?"

If at all off put before, Rory's entire front changes, shifts to shock, to blithe. "French toast? _Really?_ Mommy, we haven't made that in—

The child breaks off, shaking her head frantically. "Like—like—forever! Like a _year." _

"So…French toast it is, then?" Lizzie inquires, tilting her head and breaking out in an expression of tease. Rory nods, throws the blankets away to step onto the floor, rush to take her child-sized robe off a hook.

"Come on!" Aurora beckons, grabbing her mother's hand.

Lizzie is, all at once, taken back to the hypnotist's episode, to her own, child-self. The connection there is obvious, the resemblance uncanny. But this is different, somehow. Different, and the same. And even if Lizzie's smile falls, she still follows her daughter.

She tries to ignore the fact this world might not even be real.

/

The smell of cinnamon and syrup and calorie-packed breakfast seems legitimate, at the very, very least. Rory eats like a little lady, manners complimented by how dead set she is about cutting the bread into bite-sized pieces all by herself, denying Liz's help. Capable. Independent.

It's expected, really.

Lizzie sips at coffee the color of sand and inhales deeply.

Cartoons playing, normalcy, until Sammy says, out of the blue, in the midst of babbling unintelligible syllables:

"_Dada."_

Rory's reaction is far more excited than Liz's herself.

The big sister hops up from where she was seated in the breakfast nook, moves quickly to Sammy's side. Coos. "Mommy," Rory mutters, shocked. "Mommy, did you hear him say it?"

"I did."

There's a strange sensation in her chest. A burning.

Where's Red?

"Da," the baby goes again, clapping his hands together, kicking his legs against the plastic.

"Mommy!" Rory starts, in her direction. "Mommy, he said, 'Daddy'! He's asking for Daddy! When's he coming home?"

The blond curls fly as the little girl turns her head, eyes piercing amongst the baby's babbling, the cartoons; a morning song. "Mommy? When's Daddy coming home?"

"I don't know," Lizzie repeats, and the thing is, it's another day, another time in this dream world, and she still doesn't know where Red is, or when he's coming back.

There's tears stinging her eyes, but they never fall.

Lizzie steels herself, moves to crouch and touch Sammy's cheek, kiss Rory on the crown of her hair.

"That's such a good boy," Lizzie finds herself saying. "Isn't Bubby smart, Aurora?"

The little girl nods, even as her expression shifts, ever so slightly, at the unanswered question.

Lizzie wishes she had an answer, too.

/

Later, while they're cleaning up the remnants of preparing the meal, Rory comments, pitch quiet, small:

"I miss the way Daddy makes French toast."

The words catch Lizzie off guard, make her frown, make her heart quiver. Red, making French toast. Red in the kitchen. What a thought. What a _thought._

Her silence and therein inner contemplation make Rory unsure, shaky. "I like the stuff we made, Mommy. I just—

She breaks off, and Sammy shrieks something wild, as if he senses the way his sister is emoting pure tension, devastation. Faster than Lizzie can even fathom, Rory's eyes well up, and the next words are tearful. "I miss _Daddy," _Rory whispers, covering her mouth, sobbing, and—

"Hey," Lizzie rushes for her daughter, lets the little girl bury her face, much like the baby had done this morning, in Lizzie's clothing. "It's okay. I know. Hush. Hush."

Something overtakes Lizzie at the way Aurora shakes, the same protectiveness, the same yearning. Lizzie wishes, with everything inside her, that she could make Rory stop hurting. But then, in the next moment, Rory pulls back, looks up at her mother with a wet gleam in her eye.

"It's okay, though," Rory coughs, snotty and utterly beautiful, how positively green her daughter's eyes are. Clear, and green, and so very Red.

"Daddy will be home soon," Rory tells her mother, abundantly confidant, despite all the unkempt emotion.

Lizzie smiles a bit because it seems right, in this situation.

Nods, even though a part of her, a part she doesn't even has a name for, doesn't agree.

/

"If you could go anywhere in the world—okay, no, maybe not," Lizzie chuckles at the mischievous look in Rory's pink-rimmed eyes. "If you could go anywhere around where we live, where would it be? The zoo?"

Giggling.

"The aquarium?"

More giggling, a shake of the head. "Mommy."

"Then where?"

Rory thinks on it for a long moment, her pouty lips quirking. Finally:

"Anastasia."

Lizzie's eyebrows touch her hairline. "What?"

"You know! That place Daddy and you took me to before Sammy was born. Sammy wasn't even in your tummy yet!"

"That long ago," Lizzie whispers, following along, even with a faraway look in her eye. Still puzzled. "What did you like about it?"

"Well," Rory starts, clasping her hands underneath her chin. "It was really green, and everything smelled good. And the water is fun to play in if—

"_Anacostia," _Lizzie realizes, cutting Aurora off.

"That's what I said, Mommy," Rory rolls her eyes, and Lizzie's the one giggling, this time.

/

In her closet, behind all the dresses and the fine things, she finds a good pair of running shoes.

It's a beautiful day in September, the leaves on the precipice of turning. Golds and oranges.

Beautiful for a hike.

/

She braids Rory's hair.

(She really, _really_ loves braiding Rory's hair.)

/

Jesus, help her.

Jesus, the only sucky thing about this world, really, is that she's never had to fumble with a car seat in the other one, and, well. Getting sandals on a baby's feet is hard work. Getting everyone dressed is hard work, and packing the baby bag, and the picnic basket, and—

Lizzie never thought, in a million years, regardless of universe, that she'd ever wear one of those ridiculous looking child-carriers. But this is different.

This is the kind that makes him strap to her back, Sacagawea style.

An expensive Cadillac Escalade to load everybody into, the purr of the engine, and it's barely ten in the morning when she sets out with Rory in a booster and Sammy entertained with a rattle.

Explores a neighborhood she's lived in for years, because it's the first time.

When Liz goes to turn on the radio, the GPS lights up, and oh. Oh.

She still works at the Post Office, apparently.

That's the destination that's typed in, that's most often visited, most often point B, so. Oh.

Sirius plays some older stuff, but before Lizzie can change it, Rory starts singing. Off tune, but in beat. "You can go your own way, go your own way. You can call it another lonely da—

"You know Fleetwood Mac?" Lizzie murmurs, aghast.

She would turn around and look at her daughter if she wasn't so safety conscious.

She's kind of, sort of proud. Maybe a little bit, because hey, at least her kid is well-versed on oldies, on good music, until:

"Mommy, this is _Stevie Nicks." _

Like Lizzie is the insane one.

"Oh, _right_."

/

"Can I be Christopher Columbus?" Rory asks her mother once they've pulled off onto the gravel parking lot, getting settled to begin their journey.

"Christopher Columbus?" Liz questions. "Why not Louis or Clark?"

The Sacagawea vibe is strong, with the way Sammy easily accommodates to the backpack-like feel. Such an adaptable child. No fuss, no muss. Well-adjusted, happy.

Rory pushes her bangs behind her ear, fresh into the twined hair. "Mommy, did you know Christopher Columbus had a ship? Daddy likes ships. Daddy was in the Navy, and they have lots of ships."

There's the lump in the back of the throat, the tick-tocking, again.

Lizzie goes, "Right, right."

They start towards the path together.

"You can be whoever you want to be, Rory. You know that? Anyone. But I think I'd prefer you to just be you, today. Rory, the explorer."

It flows so easy, the conversation. The words of wisdom.

This is the advice she would give a daughter in this world and the next, in any given life.

(Red has yachts, and Lizzie wonders if he's on one now, some business trip.)

"Really, Mommy?"

"Really," Lizzie replies without hesitation, and here, now— this is the first time it crosses Lizzie's mind that Red is not here with them, and Red should be.

And maybe, just maybe, Red is choosing not to be here.

Just maybe.

He has a history of it, is all.

History.

/

Rory has a best friend named Ruby, and Ruby likes bugs and blue and Rory like pink and hates bugs, but they're still best friends. Ruby told Trevor, a boy that likes her and sends her notes that say love, even if he spells it wrong, 'l—u—v', that she thinks boys are gross. Trevor has started sending Rory the notes. Rory thinks it's to make Ruby jealous.

"Or he's just a player," Rory shrugs.

"How do you even know what that means?" Liz inquires, pedantic.

Rory just laughs.

/

When they finally arrive in the clearing Lizzie is thinking of, it's shy of noon. Blanket placed, water of the river rushing. The sun is warm on everybody's cheeks, and Lizzie is undeniably glad that she chose to lather Sammy's baby face in sunscreen, paint Aurora with it, too. They're fair-haired, fair-skinned, just like Red.

Red has to acclimate to a tan. Lizzie has the sinking suspicion Rory and Sam would burn if not watched, too.

Rory screeches when she spots a few river otter, points them out.

Sam, amused by his sister's loudness, rolls onto his stomach and squirms. Lizzie notes, if only out of worry, that Sam doesn't walk yet. He must be small for his age, and Lizzie counts the months, knows it's okay if he's behind. Premature children can always be behind. But it worries her, it does.

She props him up in her lap and works with him, in the clearing.

He falls back down any time she lets go, but it's a start. His baby legs shake and shake, but he's a fighter. Lizzie is a fighter. Red is a fighter.

Runs in the family, Lizzie thinks. Again, and again, and again.

/

Rory is munching on a piece of celery when she stops and narrows her eyes at her mother, clears her throat in a manner more adult than any six-year-old should be capable.

"How come you didn't work today?"

Here's a puzzle piece, Lizzie thinks. Here's something unfathomable.

"Do you think I always work Saturday?" she asks, soft, wondering.

"You have for…" Aurora pauses, thinks. "Ever since when I was, like, not in kindergarten. Since before Sammy, when Sammy was in your tummy. And then after you got to go back to work, when he could breathe okay."

The phrasing doesn't make sense, but Lizzie doesn't know how to make it make sense.

"Did it scare you?" Lizzie asks, because it's been on her mind, and this is a good time to bring it up. The baby coos in her lap, sucks on his bottle and holds it easily in his hands, propped up against her. "That he couldn't breathe?"

"Yeah," Aurora's voice breaks, but not from sadness. From raw emotion, all pent up in her tiny body.

Rory pets her brother's soft head lightly, smiles at her mother. "But it was okay, Mommy, 'cause Aunt Kate said that Sammy was strong, like Daddy. And he was."

Strong like Red.

Aunt Kate.

Mr. Kaplan. Mr. Kaplan is Aunt Kate, and Sammy was strong, like Red, and—

"Daddy wasn't there when Sam was born," Liz realizes, speaks aloud, and oh, how these realizations hit, touch her in all the odd places, dry mouth, and—

Rory jumps in, quick. "Aunt Kate said Daddy wanted to be there," she defends her father, but no.

No, it makes no sense, and all the sense in the world, and Lizzie suddenly understands.

Red has left them.

Red has really, honest to God, left them. Left Rory. Left her pregnant with another child on the way, and—

Lizzie struggles, as the pure emotion of being fuming, livid, shaking in her skin, overtakes her.

The baby book makes sense, now. _Sometimes, I find it very hard to forgive your father for what he's done, Sam. _Something of that nature, is what it said, and now it all makes sense. He left them. Elizabeth looks at her daughter, chewing on carrots and celery, precious. Her son, with his bottle, with his chubby cheeks—

She looks at their children, the things they made together, and—

And Lizzie realizes what it feels like to be a storm, to be a hurricane.

To want to destroy, to want to make him hurt, because these children, their children—

They don't deserve to be left.

She doesn't deserve to be left.

/

It haunts her the rest of the day. Rory plays alongside the river until the bottoms of her pants are soaked, and once Sam starts to fuss, they hike back to the car. By the time they're all finished and exhausted, Lizzie decides on ice cream for dinner, on sitting on the steps of the memorial and watching the sun go down with them. Sam falls asleep against her shoulder twice, and Rory's face is covered in chocolate, but it's perfect. It's perfect, and Red's not here to see it.

Regardless of the circumstances, her heart is breaking for Rory, for Sam.

Her heart is burning with disgust for Raymond Reddington, and yeah.

It's just not.

Fucking.

Okay.

/

She gives them both baths. Yellow rubber ducks, bubbles.

Sam is out like a light, but Rory wants a bedtime story, wants her mother squeezed beside her, tucking her in and giving her a kiss goodnight.

"Mommy," Rory mumbles, one of the last things she says to Lizzie, barely there. "Mommy, I miss Daddy's stories. Do you think he could tell me one on the phone? If you told him that all I wanted was a story, and he didn't have to come home, would he—

"I don't know," Lizzie answers, and this time, it kills her to be honest.

"I wish he'd come home," Rory whines, blinks tears as she falls asleep.

"I do too," Lizzie replies. Kisses Rory's forehead. Turns out the light.

"I hope he comes home, too."

/

There's a message on her phone. The phone she left at home all day.

It's Don, of all people. Donald Ressler, and Lizzie wonders, briefly, how he's doing in this world.

"_Liz," _his voice comes, all deep and wary. _"I know it's a hard day for you, for the kids. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me, okay? You know I'm here. Hell, if I could—_

He breaks off, and it's funny, how everything rides on this moment—

"—_I'd kick his motherfucking ass, and drag him back here to be with you guys. I know how out of character that sounds, even for me, but—_

Lizzie ends the voicemail early, buries her head in her hands.

She still wears her wedding ring, Lizzie realizes.

Lizzie stares at it, and it's funny, how everything rides on this moment.

The one where she realizes she can't take it off. She can't possibly take it off, and Lizzie lays down, exhausted. Still clothed, but too tired to move.

Too tired.

Closes her eyes, Egyptian cotton and pretty furnishing, and this life, this life is swallowing her whole and spitting her out and Lizzie falls.

Lizzie falls fast asleep.

/

She wakes that morning, in her own bed, childless.

Her fingers flounder to her abdomen, to the clear, unmarred skin.

Lizzie wakes still furious.

/

She meets him at the DMV and paints the prettiest smile she can upon her face, but truth be told, all she wants is to be home, to be back with Rory and Sam, and this is dangerous. Seeing him and being angry for all the crazy reasons is dangerous, and she's trying to steady herself back into this reality, but all she can think is that he's left his family. He left Jennifer and Carla, once.

He leaves people, he abandons them, and she knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if she gives him the fulcrum, he'll leave her too. He's already left their children. Rory and Sam, babies with his eyes—

He has a game plan. He doesn't believe in anything else, and Lizzie wonders, fleetingly, what the hell set him off, after she fell pregnant with Sam—

But then there's the Kenyon Family, all those precious children.

Children in a vicious trap, and Red's right, politics don't matter.

When she's taken hostage, she looks into the haunted little girl's eyes, and comprehends that the reason why Rory sleeps so well is because she's never experienced terror, trauma. And maybe, just maybe, that's the positive to take from the situation. In another life, in the future—

If Red leaves her, Lizzie could still provide their children with a stable life—

But, but, but—

It's not real.

Sam and Rory are not real, it was just a dream, and ha.

Ha. Ha.

/

Red tries to give her an apartment.

Red tries to give her a warm place, a safe place, at The Audrey, with a view of the Potomac, and all Lizzie can think of is Rory, playing in the water, pointing at an otter, squealing—

Red buys her a goddamn apartment and all Lizzie can think of is the house, the home that he never sleeps in because he abandoned them, because he left, and—

And he tries to tell her a story. He tries to tell her a story, and she stops him.

Rory doesn't get to hear his stories, so why should she?

(It is silly thinking, and she knows it's crazy to create her own brand of logic, like this. But she can't help it. She closes her eyes and sees Rory crying herself to sleep because her father won't tell her a story, isn't there to tell her stories, begging for him to just tell her a story, and it's not okay.)

He looks more helpless than he ever has, when she leaves. Resigned.

Elizabeth wishes she could make it better, but she can't.

Because she's helpless too.

Helpless, and angry, and so, _so _hurt.

Hurting for a life she's hasn't even lived yet.

Mourning a love she's never even lost.

.

.

.

tbc.


	4. Chapter 4

"Lizzie, you're lying," he says, and she is, and he knows, and she wishes, more than anything in the world, that he didn't.

The bitter swill of air is whipping around them on a conspicuous sidewalk, and he's asking her for the only thing she has to offer him. As if she's been reduced to an inanimate object, and he's offering to help with a serial killer he has no interest in, and his lips look chapped, and she's never touched them. In another world, in the future, she'll have his children, and she's never kissed his lips. Standing there on the sidewalk, hearing him call her out, it's the moment she realizes why time machines haven't been invented, why God has a hand in technology, why the fates keep. She wishes she didn't know what she knows, as much as she wishes he had no idea that she has The Fulcrum.

Lizzie wonders if, in the other world—

If before he left them—

Rory; a little girl with big eyes and questions. Sam, a baby, an unborn child, then. A boy.

In the baby book, it said Red laughed when he found out he had a son on the way, he had a son, and yet—

Before he left them, did he stare at the ring on his finger? Contemplate the meaning?

Did he remember the vows? Did he think of the life, of the child that grew within her? Of the daughter that only wanted stories and goodnight kisses? Did he feel Sam kick and feel trapped? Did he have no other choice? Threats beating at the door? Monsters with claws, and Red felt it was the only way to protect them? By leaving them alone?

A vow broken is a lie in itself, Lizzie thinks. And even if Red doesn't know it yet, one day, he's going to lie to her. He's going to leave her, leave everything that matters all over again. A second chance down the drain, and Lizzie stares at Red on the sidewalk and thinks, fleetingly, if the Lizzie in the future knew Red was lying when he left, when he said he'd be back. Lizzie lies to Rory, telling the child her father is on a business trip. Lies, lies. Everything lies, everybody lying.

But Lizzie still can't fathom why Red would go, leave them like a love letter on a pillow. Leave them, leave a closet full of clothes. Never return. Even if she knew though, it would not make it any better.

Road to hell, and all.

Red agrees to help her profile The Deer Hunter, and Lizzie tries not to think about anything else.

Tries, of course, being the operative word.

/

It builds, grey clouds, peeling thunder. Lizzie is hoisted up in a sling, and she's listening to this lunatic of a woman bumbling on and on about intentions, and it builds like a storm behind her eyes, in her throat. Her pulse a jackhammer, and then she goes off. Bang, bang, bang. Chaos, and she's got her legs around the woman, the woman. Red had said it was a woman, and like hell is this bitch going to keep her from ever falling asleep again, ever seeing Aurora, seeing Sammy, seeing—

She's angry enough to kill, is the problem. Clenching, clenching, and then Don's voice breaks through, and she's looks up, wild.

Let's go.

The interesting thing is, though, despite it all— despite the emotion bubbling in her stomach, it's not remorse that gets her. It's regret. Lizzie finds herself so angry she might actually kill somebody, and she doesn't know why. She doesn't know why she's so angry, so stricken, but she is.

"_Mommy_," Rory said to her, in the other world_. "Roar! I'm the cub and you're the lioness. Roar, roar, roar!"_

/

And then they're on bar stools, and Red's mouth is twisted up all funny when he tells her, yes.

Yes, he's scolding her.

He says the word, 'killed', like it's a form of witchcraft, of heresy. A method of being so disgusting he can barely stand to think it, and when she teases him about the phone privileges, well. The look on his face tells her he doesn't find it cute. Lizzie wonders, if Red was actually around in the other world, if he'd be the kind of father that would be the barer of punishment for their children.

No, she decides.

He's more likely to spoil them rotten.

Ponies and ice cream.

So, "I have it," she offers up. "The Fulcrum."

Mostly because she feels like, at the end of the day, he's going to leave her one day, anyway.

How about a trade?

No. Right, no.

Red reads her, gives her the entangling thoughts on a silver platter, and he tells her she's afraid, and she is. And she wishes he didn't know she was, but. Well. She wants to ask if he blames her, what with his track record, but instead it comes out as leaving, as walking away without a word. Her lips tremble, but she doesn't cry. For some reason, Lizzie feels like if she cries, she'll be doing a disservice to her daughter.

The daughter that doesn't even really exist.

But she had Red's eyes, Lizzie thinks. The daughter had Red's eyes.

Somehow, that makes all the difference.

/

She picks up a bottle of wine from the liquor store, drains it bare by ten that night.

Lizzie falls asleep drunk, and confused, and sad, and angry.

Even if she's studied psychology and knows all the bells and whistles, it doesn't stop her from welcoming the delusion, the fantasy, with her two good hands and every part of her chest. Waiting for it, waiting.

Waiting for the waking up, and the Egyptian cotton, and—

/

An alarm blares.

That phone alarm.

Her phone.

Lizzie rolls to the side and uncoordinatedly smashes around for the device, punching in her password, groaning. She blearily eyes the time, notes that it's a Tuesday. Early December. Still the same year as the last time, but three months later. At least her body is still the same. Her fingers moving to glance across the stretch marks akin to the same way she plays with the scar on her wrist. Different body, riddled by different tragedies. Sammy had to be delivered by cesarean, and he was early.

Lizzie has a sinking suspicion that Red's departure was half the reason for the stress, for the premature labor.

Baring her teeth against the colder air of the room, she pulls back the covers and plants her socked feet on the floor.

Immediately, the outfit laid out catches her eye.

A suit.

Work.

She has work today, obviously. It's a week day.

She's never been to work, in this world. She remembers that the GPS in the car had marked The Post Office as a popular spot, but it still puts a twitch in her eye with the worry that this convoluted dream will become a nightmare, and she'll be caught unawares as everyone here realizes that she's an imposter from the past. She has only taken on the name of Elizabeth Reddington twice up until now, but at the very least, she knows what to do now. Half past six.

Routine, the way she finds her robe, ties the belt around her waist steadily.

Rory first, today.

Lizzie shoulders open the door to her daughter's bedroom, taking pause at the way the six year old is haphazardly sprawled out. Spread eagled, snoring. Deep sleep, and it makes Lizzie smile. She bets, if Red sleeps well, this is how he sleeps, or once slept, at the very least, too. "Hey."

Lizzie jostles Rory softly, hums in the little girl's ear. "Wake up, baby."

Rory doesn't even flinch. Merely growls, all petulant, scrunches up her face. Mumbles, and relaxes again. Liz narrows her eyes. Rory, at six years old, just told Liz she would not wake up. No. And see, Lizzie knows, knows what to do, because it's obvious, isn't it? With all the composure known to man, Liz leans in, purses her lips.

Proceeds to swipe the flat of her tongue across Rory's cheek.

In two seconds flat, Aurora Jane Reddington's eyes shoot open, staring wide at the ceiling. "Mommy," she gasps, scandalized. "Mommy, did you just—

Lizzie covers her mouth to stop the fiendish laughter from bursting forth, taking a step back and trying to fix her daughter with the most all-knowing look that she can.

"Mommy, why did you _lick _me?" Rory hisses, as menacing as any six year old can come across.

"Because," Lizzie explains, trying to keep her voice from wobbling too much with hysterical humor, "that is what Momma lions do when their cubs refuse to wake up. Didn't you know that?"

Starting forward, because she is alone. She is alone, and Red's not here, but that doesn't mean she can't start forward, and be happy, and pinch her daughter in the side. Lizzie's imagination is wicked, though. She imagines Red here with her, now. Tickling their daughter together. Tickling her this early, morning light, blithe. Tinkerbell pajamas, pink room. Little cub, her little cub.

She and Red's little cub, and it's a silly thought, but it makes everything brighter.

"Didn't you know that?" she asks again, tickling Rory again. Rory is startling, gasping.

"Mommy!" she shrieks. "_Mommy!"_

_/_

Things have changed. She figures this out when, upon entering her son's room, she finds him standing in his crib, chubby fingers laced around the bars. Standing. He's standing, which means he's probably—

"Mommy," he calls out.

Bouncing, excited. He's excited to see her, and oh, how excited she is to see him. Her other cub.

"Hey, buddy," Liz greets, something surfacing in her being at seeing him so grown. He's heavier than he was, healthier looking, even if he's still small for an almost two year old. Green eyes twinkle in the light for her, and he chortles when she bounces him on her hip, peppers wet kisses all over his soft skin. Hair longer, sturdier.

"Juice," Sammy demands, kicking his legs. "Juice."

"Alright, alright. Juice it is, then."

/

Single motherhood and being an FBI profiler are worlds apart, Lizzie finds.

But in this life, in this future, she has to be both.

After getting everybody dressed, after profusely checking her phone, and doing some research through Aurora's schoolbag to figure out exactly where Rose Hill School is located. Her daughter attends a Montessori school. She discovers this, and the price, after web searching it on her smart phone. Expensive, too expensive, but the curriculum is tailored. With Rory being the progeny of two curious minds, Lizzie can only imagine that she needs the one-on-one.

There's a daycare center within the school that takes Sammy.

The contact information is within the right side of Liz's planner, and there's a note there, in her own handwriting, although she can't recall ever writing it. _Payment for the month due the 15__th__, _it notes.

It is cereal and milk this morning, because there's no time for pancakes. She braids Rory's hair while the child watches cartoons. Sam stuffs his cheeks with Cheerios. "_Ball," _he articulates, gesturing wildly toward the screen. "Dog run. Ball, ball, ball! Mommy, dog."

He beams at her as if he's said something important, then—

"Mommy, Bubba's right," Rory turns, makes Liz mess up a row of braiding.

"Sit still," Lizzie asks of her. Rory turns back, puffing. "What do you mean, he's right?"

Sammy claps his hands. "Dog."

"We want a dog, Mommy," Rory tells Liz. "A puppy. _Please."_

Liz remembers Hudson, then. Hudson is probably dead in this world. The thought saddens her deeply, but—

"We aren't getting a dog, Aurora."

Much to Liz's dismay, Rory sags, frowns.

She does not want to be this parent. It's not that Elizabeth is being mean, she rationalizes. A dog would tear the pristine couch apart, gnaw at the wood. The thought makes Liz flinch, even if this isn't technically a house she's bought and nurtured. This Liz from this world probably doesn't want a dog, she rationalizes. She rationalizes, and rationalizes, and then—

"Daddy said we'd get a dog," Rory remembers, and Liz knows immediately from the tone of the little girl's voice that she doesn't mean to guilt, to persuade. Rory is just remembering the past, how she saw it. "Remember, Mommy? Sammy hadn't been borned yet. _Born_, sorry. Daddy said we'd get a dog and Uncle Dembe would teach it to protect us. I miss Uncle Dembe. Are we ever gonna see Uncle Dembe again, Mommy?"

Rory turns, and Liz messes up again, but she doesn't scold. Doesn't move, really. Just holds, pained.

Quiet and hurting.

She can see it, then. Imagine it. A Christmas, Sam's first Christmas. In this world, if Red hadn't left, and Sam hadn't been born early, Sammy's first Christmas would have been a happy occasion. Presents under the tree, music. Red might've been haunted by the ghost of his past, but with a new chance, a second chance, he would have made the most of this life. Rory in a pretty red dress, sparkly shoes. And under the tree, with a big, blue ribbon around his neck would have been a puppy, a yapping, nipping puppy, and Rory would have ran into Red's arms and he would've picked her up and—

And when Rory became immersed in meeting the new addition to the family, scratching it behind its ears—

Christmas music playing, Rory with the dog, Sammy down for a nap in his pram—

Red would have wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in, held her beneath mistletoe and leaned in to—

"Mommy?" Rory inquires, seeing the look on her mother's face, the paleness. "Mommy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—

"No," Liz interrupts. Tries to reassure with a calming look. "It's okay, little one. I'm just—

She stops, because everything she wants to say couldn't possibly be expressed to Rory in a logical and linear sense.

"Doggy," Sam breaks in, breaking the tension.

"We might think about getting a dog," Lizzie offers up, and it's a chest filled with candles when an expectant, hopeful look comes into Aurora's eyes. That's how a child's eyes should be— not dimmed by grief, by longing. "Not now, but maybe soon. Okay?"

"Okay, Mommy."

/

The car line isn't bad, but having Rory kiss Lizzie goodbye nonchalantly, leave with a flurry of a flowery backpack and wispy blonde braid— that's hard; it's different than the bus was, that first morning. There's a parking garage around back, signs that tell Liz where to take Sammy, but even then—

Leaving Sam with people she should know, but has never met before in her life, it's hard. It's like picking scabs. It's painful, and even if Lizzie is still kind-of, sort-of new to this whole mothering thing, leaving Sammy cooing, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, bye-bye,", it feels weird and wrong and it goes against every cell in her body that says stay, take him home, protect him with everything she has. This world's Liz has to go to work in this state, Liz realizes.

Now, she has work.

/

The Post Office looks the same from the outside. Different guards, same protocol, and when she thinks they'll ask for her badge at the gate, they don't. Which is intriguing, and Liz's limbs move without thought, finding the plastic talisman of her job, her title, in the place it would have been in any car, in any world. Lizzie reads it, as she's pulling through, waved on by smiling men with guns and fatigues.

Assistant Director Elizabeth Reddington.

"Holy—

She almost clips a neighboring vehicle.

/

It's the undercover assignment of her life, pretending to be herself. Scanning her badge, straightening her spine, pursing her lips as if she's normal, everything is normal, this is normal. Being here, like this.

"Director," a woman with blonde hair and freckles nods to her as they pass in the hallway, and at the most convenient, at least they haven't done any crazy renovations in the past ten years. Lizzie still stiffens at the title.

Cooper isn't here, anymore. Retired?

What about Don?

Through the winding stairwells, she finds where Cooper's old office was located, and with a deep, relieved sigh, she reads her name in gold-plated glory. Her office. Assistant Director, and then, and then, as she's stepping inside, viewing the picture on her desk of Rory and Sam together, and the diplomas hung on the wall, the paperwork waiting for her—

The Blacklist is done. There's no more task force. No more Aram and Samar constantly flirting, no Don to have her back, no Cooper with his brooding stares, no Red. No Red to burst in and solve the puzzle, to offer advice she doesn't want, no more Red. Her old life, the life that she knows— it's gone. It doesn't exist anymore, and Lizzie sinks down into the cozy office chair because her legs won't hold her up. What does she do with all her time?

What does she—

"Ma'am," a man with brown eyes, with a hard jaw— he almost looks like Don, almost— greets her, standing in the doorway. Lizzie jerks up, clears her throat. Pretends, pretends.

"Yes?"

"We have a situation in Baltimore," he tells her, as if she's supposed to know—

But she _doesn't_ know.

And this isn't a situation that she can sneeze her way out of, so, so she opts for the better path. Lizzie stands, pushes back her shoulders, moves to where he's standing, and he turns so that she follows, but—

"I need you to do something for me," she states, leveling out her octave so that she sounds every bit as domineering as a boss should. He tenses at the tone, nods. Eyes so serious. She tries not to make him think she's crazy, that she's reprimanding him, but—

"I had a hell of a night last night," she lies, tries to insert humor in a no nonsense way. "I need a full briefing on everything that's happened thus far, and the current situation. Can you do that for me? Let's walk and talk."

He nods again, faster. Opens his mouth, and—

/

The real person that catches her up to date about Dimitri Romanoff, the Russian hit man with a God-complex that's found targets in the children of senators, the person that runs it, even though the person is supposed to be under Elizabeth Reddington in pulling rank—

It's Agent Mapp.

The Agent Mapp.

One and the same, the woman that was best friends with the woman everybody at the water cooler tells Lizzie she's just like, that she's emulating, and Lizzie thinks about Rory and Sam, and the house in the suburbs, and sees Ardelia Mapp and her mocha skin, her fiery eyes, and Lizzie wonders if she and Red were ever too far off the money, the legacy that Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling left behind. Agent Mapp responds well to Liz's presence in the situation room, though.

Obviously respects her.

Liz watches as, from a live feed in Baltimore, a little girl that must be right around Rory's age screeches and kicks as Romanoff holds a deadly, sleek-looking gun to her head. Public execution, and he always finds a way to escape with the chaos of the crowd after all the blood, finds a way to get gone and evade capture, but—

"He does this because of his own daughter," Ardelia tells Lizzie. "She died because these children's parents, American senators, were the key proponents that helped pass—

It's all semantics, at the end of the day. Same pig, different lipstick. In this world, in this future, evil people are still evil, and their tragic pasts are still only a method of knowing why, a method implementing the exact tool to use. Guns or knives. Bombs or bows. "What do you want to do, Liz?"

She meets Ardelia's gaze steadily, and it doesn't even seem like pretending when she opens her mouth—

/

They save the daughter. Romanoff is dead, and it's her first day on this job, and it's her last day, because it's only noon and she's already exhausted, already struggling with the weight upon her shoulders at the knowledge that she is the woman this would all fall back on if it all came crumbling down. If the situation had escalated, and there'd been a seven year olds brain matter spewed upon the cobblestone. She's pulled from the train of thought by a voice.

"Hey," comes a voice, a recognizably voice, and the blood freezes in Lizzie's veins and warms again so very rapidly, because it's him. It's actually him.

"Don."

The smile that breaks across her face is blinding, and Lizzie stands, and they move together, toward one another, and Lizzie realizes two seconds before it happens what is getting ready to happen, and she tries to school her features.

She tries to not freak the hell out when Donald Ressler plants one on her, there, in her office, and in the next moment—

He's pulled away, holding up a bag that smells like greasy carbs. "Lunch?"

So, she's dating Ressler.

Okay.

_Okay. _

_/_

"Listen," Don goes, and she notices the crisp starch of his white shirt, the way his eyes have more lines around them. Weathered. "I just wanted to say right off the bat that I've wanted to give you space."

She shifts in her chair, stuffing a fry in her mouth to quell her emotional response.

"Time," he goes on, uneasy. "I know it's hard for you guys this time of year. I wanted to be respectful of that."

Lizzie swallows the food and remembers, remembers, thinks of Rory's sad eyes, thinks of a lost letter, no pictures on the walls. "Thank you."

It seems like the right thing to say, given it all, but then he sputters out, in a flurry:

"Liz, what do you think about maybe, uhm, spending Christmas with me? You and the kids. With my family."

The sentence is stilted and Lizzie cocks her head, ears perking, pinking, "Don, your family—

"My mother and father," he nods quickly, nervously. Jesus, she's never seen him so high strung, and it makes her breath stutter to see him like this, to know he cares for her approval this much. Jesus. "My brother and his wife, and their kids. Maybe my cousins too. We have a farm just outside of Fairfax."

She opens her mouth.

She closes it.

"Listen, I know this is last minute," he narrows his eyes, grasping at strings, and Lizzie winces because all she can think is:

"Rory."

His eyes lighten up at the mere mention of her daughter's name. Some strange adoration. Oh. "I know we haven't gotten around to telling her yet, Liz. But I've already told my family about everything, and I can be Uncle Duck to her for as long as she needs me to be—

"Everything?" Lizzie arches a single brow, trepidation in her veins.

"What I can."

There's so much meaning there, so much that she can barely stand the way the heaviness fills the air. The weight of knowledge. She wonders how he told his parents. _The woman I'm dating's daughter is the child of the Concierge of Crime. Congratulations, you're getting a step-granddaughter. _

Lizzie glances down at her hand, knows that she still wears Red's ring. Why does she still wear Red's ring if—

"Liz, I'm sorry," Don apologizes, looking ashamed for even asking, and Lizzie's stomach turns. "I just thought—

"No," Lizzie interrupts. Tries to smile. "We'd love to. _I'd _love to."

The Lizzie in this world would say that, wouldn't she? Red's gone, and he's not coming back. Rory will spend a Christmas without her Daddy, and it's all Red's fault, and maybe it's not spite, but it's something like unresolved anger that makes her say yes. Yes, she needs to move on. If Liz could give advice to her own self that would be the message. Move the fuck on.

It's sad, the way Don looks like she's just given him the universe. "Really? Okay. Great!"

Lizzie's head bobs, but it doesn't mean anything, all bodies, none of it real.

Lizzie thanks God this world isn't actually real.

/

He goes to kiss her goodbye, and she can't help it that she turns her head, buries her nose in his neck so that his lips meet her forehead instead. He grunts when hugs him as tightly as she can, and she can't help herself when she's overcome with emotion because in this life, however strange it might be, he's important to her. He's helped her heal, or helping her. She doesn't know how successful he's been, but she knows he's tried.

"Thank you," she whispers in his ear.

She means it.

/

Lizzie goes to leave around six because she can't stay at work any longer. The cases are the same, but there's no more Red, no more Blacklist, and somehow that does make all the difference as far as her interest level is concerned. She has a small child at home. All she wants is to see Sam's sweet face, and Rory must be at ballet now, by the words in her planner. Lizzie finds the address of the dance studio, finds directions. She wants to see her daughter dance, and it's funny—

Ardelia stops her, on her way out. "Going home early, boss?"

"Yeah," Lizzie inclines her head. Tries to summon, assuage guilt, but can't.

She's a mother now.

How could the Lizzie in this world ever be fine with working until all hours of the night?

With Rory, with Sam.

How could she stand it?

/

The rectangular window gives way to the most beautiful sight she's ever seen.

Rory's tights are baby pink, and oh, how she can move. She's petite in comparison to the other little girls, but determined in a way that Lizzie is familiar with, even for her size. This isn't a recreational dance school, not from the way the children behave, not from the instructor's straightened jaw, hawk-like attention. Rory moves to do a kick of some kind, and oh.

She's flexible, and Lizzie smiles, thinks of how graceful she is.

How graceful Jennifer, Rory's half-sister, must have been.

She catches the tail end of the class, and then the students are bowing before the teacher, and Lizzie turns when she hears her name called out. It's a young girl, probably barely eighteen. And Sam—

Sam reaches for her, wiggling in the woman's arms. Nanny. There's a nanny, Lizzie remembers.

Lizzie can't remember her name, but the girl looks confused when she says, "Liz! You—

"Mommy!" Rory sees her mother, running, wrapping her little arms around Lizzie's middle.

Lizzie looks down, the edges of her lips lifting heavenward. "Hey, little one."

The nanny comes closer, catching Liz's attention. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," Lizzie replies, shrugging. "I just wanted more time with them tonight."

Rory keeps going on that Lizzie got to see her dance.

"You really wanted to see me, Mommy? Really?"

"Of course I did."

And the look of doubt in Rory's eyes breaks Lizzie's heart, just a little.

/

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad—

"Take a sad song," Lizzie sings along with Rory, the windows down. Sammy is laughing in his car seat.

"And make it better."

/

The moment Lizzie's eyes fall upon the black, sleek vehicle, she forgets how to breathe. Red, she thinks. Oh.

_Red._

/

The door is open, and Lizzie moves inside with Sammy on her hip to be overcome with the scent of something heavenly, something mouth-watering, and she rounds the corner, heart pounding. Rory moves ahead of her, though, and Lizzie opens her mouth to tell Rory to wait, but—

"Aunt _Kate!" _Rory squeaks, and Lizzie sees Mr. Kaplan, and honest to God, she doesn't know what to say.

_Kate _is wearing an apron that says, _I kiss better than I cook, _and she looks older, but still just as put together, and—

"Ducky, oh, hello. Look at how big you're getting."

Kate's eyes flick to Lizzie, ever perceptive. "Did you forget, Elizabeth?"

The older woman sounds almost worried. Lizzie shakes her head, trying to find something to say. Rory goes to get changed.

"I'm just tired," she tries. Kaplan doesn't buy it, moves forward and takes Sammy from Liz like she's handled the child so many times, and maybe she has. Maybe the woman has, and it's hard for Lizzie to wrap her mind around it.

Dinner instead of bodies.

Children instead of guns.

Fuck. That's stroganoff, on the stove, and Lizzie meets Kaplan's eyes after she's done mothering over Sammy. "Samuel is becoming quite the young lad too, hmm? He's growing well."

Kaplan told Rory that the boy was strong like his father, and Lizzie knows the depth, knows. "Yeah."

Kaplan speaks to Liz more directly. "Elizabeth, what's wrong? You seem…unwell."

"I'm just tired," Liz offers up. Kate takes the answer with noticeable hesitation, helps Sam into his high chair.

"I've set the table. Do you want to help me with the snow peas?"

Lizzie's nostril flares, and Jesus, she's got to get a hold of herself. "Sure. Of course!"

/

Rory is a talker, like Red. Tells stories about her day, her friends, and Kate takes it all in, comments at the appropriate places. Lizzie is silent throughout dinner, feeds Sam to keep herself busy. "Will you read me a story, Aunt Kate?" Aurora asks when she goes to leave the table, expectant.

Kate looks warmer than Lizzie has ever seen her, and it's weird, how Don and Kate, even Ardelia Mapp—

The difference in people is staggering. All because she's had Raymond Reddington's children.

Kate tells Rory, "Yes, but only after you finish your homework."

Rory flounces away without a second thought, and it could almost be adorable, and then—

Lizzie feels cornered, having to wash the dishes with Kate Kaplan. Bringer of justice, even in this world she seems like nothing more than a doting Aunt. Lizzie knows better, though. Lizzie knows better.

Sammy plays with ABC blocks on the floor of the den while they move, wash and dry. Quiet, until:

"You're concerning me, dearie," Mr. Kaplan's lined eyes squint, genuine, and oh, oh how it ends, like this. The composure that Lizzie has tried to keep up frails so easily in the space between the counter tops and the cabinets, the jarring elements of the life surrounding and suffocating right then and there, and Lizzie releases a shaky breath.

Speaks candidly in the only way she's able, without sounding insane.

"I keep waking up, Kate," the name is foreign on Lizzie's lips, but she tests it out. "I keep waking up, and for a split second, I think he's beside me. He's meant to be in bed next to me, you know?"

Lizzie lifts a shoulder, brittle. "And then I get angry. I go to tell him something, and—

_Red, we have a daughter. Red, our son is asking for you. Red, oh God, our little girl is so graceful, and Sammy laughs like you, and—_

"—I get _angry," _the octave of her voice lowers, and she can't help the way her knuckles go white around the dish in her hand. Heart thumping too loudly. "Is it normal to hate him?"

Lizzie sees recognition in Kaplan's eyes. Something like pity.

And oh, how Lizzie hates that, too.

"I hate him almost as much as I," and Lizzie breaks off, grits her teeth. Looks down at the soapy water. "I hate him because what he did was _selfish, _and I can't—

"Liz," Kaplan uses her nickname, and it's harsh in a way Lizzie is unaccustomed. She listens to what the woman has to say. "Do you honestly believe Raymond didn't use every ounce of his being trying to come home—

It's disbelief, and judgment, and of course Kate is on Red's side, of course—

"Rory keeps asking me," Lizzie heaves, enraged. "She keeps asking me, 'When is Daddy coming home?'" And Kate, I mean—_shit—_who do I blame for all this? Huh?"

Kate scoffs, and it's a sound of disdain, of shaming. Lizzie's cheeks heat, but Kaplan goes, "Blame yourself for not telling her the truth—

And Lizzie gets more angry, because God, God—

"Kate!"

"Blame fate. Blame whomever you pray to—

"Kate—

"Blame the man that strapped a bomb to his chest, Elizabeth."

And then.

And _then. _

And then everything goes still. It's almost as if every part of Lizzie's body freezes solid. Cold.

She goes very cold, and then very hot, and then very cold again. The words hang there, and Lizzie has really stopped breathing, and—

And Kate goes on, unaffected. Like the world hasn't just ended. Like there's no apocalypse, and what she says has no meaning, and the pain, when it begins, spreads through Elizabeth Reddington's entire being. Toes to knees, hips to sternum, shoulders to hairline. Numb, but aching in a way Lizzie doesn't know how to describe, and there's ringing. Something is ringing, and—

"Do what you have to do, dearie," and Kate's face is twisted all ugly, and Lizzie sways, but the woman's sharp nails on her forearm wake her, pull her back. "But know that Ray would not have wanted you to live like this."

"Aunt Kate!" comes a voice from somewhere upstairs. "I'm finished!"

Sammy starts to fuss, and Kate dries her hands and leaves, and Lizzie can't move.

It's like she's not strong enough, doesn't have the physical power, but then—

"Mommy," Sammy slurs, a hot tear rolling down his cheek, and Lizzie thinks of Red, that night after the hypnotist had—

Thinks about how Red's eyes had gone all hazy, and he's dead. He's dead, and they've got babies. Sammy is Red's son, and Lizzie stumbles, literally stumbles, through the entryway, into the den. Falls to her knees, and the moment Sammy is in her arms, he quiets. Hiccups, and Lizzie starts as he stops. Hot tears, all rolling down her cheeks just like her baby boy's, and Red didn't mean to leave them. Red didn't mean to leave her with babies, didn't mean to leave them all _alone, and—_

"Red," Lizzie sobs into their son's blonde curls. "_Red." _

_/_

In the aftermath, everything makes sense. No picture frames, and Red wasn't there when her son was born, but Red knew he had a son. It wasn't the stress of Red leaving them that made her go into early labor. It was the grief. And Rory, oh.

Oh, Rory, and all she wants is for Red to tell her a story again, and—

There must not be a body, then. No closure.

Like a ghost, Lizzie tucks her son into his crib, kisses his cheeks. Kate calls out to her that she's leaving, but Lizzie can't.

Lizzie can't think about anybody else right now. She just has to think about her family, and—

And Don, she remembers. Don is her boyfriend, and it makes her sick to her stomach, cold and real, makes her nearly gag, because Red is _dead. _Red was her husband, and he loved them. He loved their babies, and now Sammy is in his crib and Rory wants Lizzie to tuck her in, and this house is not a home. This house is a crypt for a life unlived.

Red probably a skeleton, if that. A suicide vest. Red probably saw the man with the vest, and knew what was happening, and he probably thought of them, thought of the baby he'd never meet, thought—

Lizzie's legs shake as she moves down the fated hallway, cracks the door to her daughter's room.

Rory was practically born a profiler, Lizzie thinks, all random. She's so keen to other's emotions that when she sees her mother's face, her elfin features fade into a slack worry. Lizzie hasn't told Rory. Lizzie hasn't told Rory, and Rory thinks her Daddy is on a business trip. That Daddy doesn't _want _to come home, and—

"Mommy, what's wrong?" Rory inquires, stock-still. "There's something wrong."

Lizzie rests herself on the edge of the bed, toeing off her shoes without thinking. "Can I lay down with you for a little bit? I need to tell you something."

It frightens Lizzie, just how dead she sounds. Dead. _Dead. _

Rory is quiet as she shifts to accommodate for Lizzie, and everything smells like Rory's sweet shampoo. Everything is pink, and pretty, and innocent, and Rory's eyes are Red's eyes, and Lizzie doesn't want to have to say it. She doesn't want to, and so she says, "There's something I need to tell you, but it's hard to say."

She studies the plastic stars on the ceiling. Glow in the dark.

Rory's tiny hand touches Lizzie's cheek, and a salty tear slips down before she can push it back. "Mommy, it's okay."

Lizzie inhales raggedly. "You know how Daddy has been gone for a long time?"

Aurora's voice is so, so small. "Yeah."

She's six. Oh, God. Rory is six, and Red won't get to see her grow up, and he won't get to walk her down the aisle, or set Dembe on—

Lizzie gasps, because _Dembe, oh God. Dembe, Dembe, Dembe. He's dead, too. They're dead. _

"Mommy—

"Daddy can't come home," Lizzie practically moans, covering her mouth with her hand, and she wishes this weren't real. She wants to go to sleep, and wake up again in the world where Red isn't anything, where there isn't all this hurt, and—

"Why won't he?" Rory's voice rises, and Lizzie looks over, and fuck.

Fuck, she's got to get her shit together, Lizzie thinks. She's got to stop this, and try and—

"It's not that he wouldn't," she explains. "He would if he could."

And her voice is breaking all over the place when she goes, "I bet if he could, he would come back and never leave us ever, _ever _again. But when Red, when Daddy was on his last business trip there was an accident and Daddy—

And she's trying not to break down completely, but Rory's realizing, and her little face crumples, and she goes, so quiet, so meek—

"Like Mr. Fluff? He went to see the angels?"

It doesn't matter if Liz doesn't know who the hell Mr. Fluff is, but Rory dawns with recognition, and Lizzie wraps the little girl into her chest, and she doesn't have to say it. She doesn't have to say, 'he died'. So instead, she says:

"Yeah. Yeah, he's…not coming back."

Fat tears slide down the six year olds cherubic cheeks, but then she goes, voice all wobbly, wondering, and hopeless:

"Mommy, you said we could get a new kitten after Fluff died?"

Immediately, Lizzie's brow deepens, mouth drying. "Yeah?"

"Mommy," and there, that's the first sob. It slips past Rory's lips, makes Lizzie's chest split. "Mommy, I _don't_ want a new Daddy. _Ever." _

And Rory is shaking her head, adamant, and there's more tears, and she sniffles and Lizzie's chest. Lizzie's chest.

"No one can ever replace Daddy," Lizzie agrees, and even if Lizzie thinks of Sam, Red is different. Don could never—

"Even if you don't see him," Lizzie whimpers, kissing Rory's sweaty hairline. "You know that he loves you, and he'll always love you, even if—

"I know," Rory's coughs, motioning to her chest, flailing. "I know he's right here."

Her hand is over her heart, and Lizzie thinks it's never going to end, never going to stop hurting any worse, but then Rory drops her hand, eyes going wide, and she's terrified. Rory suddenly looks terrified, and she looks at Lizzie and she's stuttering, she's _terrified. _

"But Mommy, _Mommy— _Sammy never met Daddy. How's Sammy gonna know Daddy?"

And Rory shakes her head wildly, trying to will Lizzie to understand the seriousness, because, "Sammy _has _to know Daddy, because Daddy—

And even if her ribs heave and heave, Rory is deadly solemn. It's literally inconceivable to Red's daughter that Red won't, that Sammy won't ever—

Lizzie rocks her like a baby, tries to give her words that will make it all better, even if nothing will. Just this morning Rory was giggling, was all carefree, and now everything is in pieces. He's dead. Red's dead. Red.

Oh God. Oh _God. _

"We are going to tell Sammy, okay? Sammy will know him because we'll tell him about Daddy."

Rory nods, but then:

"Mommy?"

Little. Rory is just a little girl, and her eyes fill with more unshed tears as she looks up at her mother.

"Yeah?" Lizzie whispers, so soft.

The dam cracks, and there, that's when it hits Aurora. That's when—

"_I miss Daddy. _I want Daddy. Daddy!_" _Rory sobs, sobs so hard her entire tiny body shakes, everything shaking, and Lizzie is trying to wrap her arms around her and make it better, but she's hurting, too. Oh, Red. Oh, oh, _Red._

"I know. I know. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

The sound of Rory's wails, muffled by Lizzie's shirt—

Lizzie won't ever stop being haunted by that sound.

/

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tbc.

_A/N: Take a deep breath. It's going to be okay. Trust me. It's all going to be fine because the future can be changed, right? Stay tuned to find out. _


	5. Chapter 5

It's the weeping of a small child, what she does.

She makes shapes in the popcorn spackle of until the tears run dry, but even then she still convulses, chest seizing with the emotion baring down, and she's got to get ahold of herself. It's six o'clock in the morning, and she's in her own bed, alone, and she repeats to herself the same mantra that never makes any sense because in another world, or perhaps, in another time, the reality exists, she swears, she swears it does, but—

But, "It's not real," she hiccups. "It's not real."

Closes her stinging, red eyes. She's crazy, but she thinks of Red leaving her with child, Red having to say goodbye to Rory for the last time even though he had no idea it was the last time, and—

"It's not real," she moans, tossing her head. Making another star in the white.

Smothers her hand over the sound of her nonsensical rambling of:

"Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal_notreal."_

/

She doesn't wait for the water to get warm, and that's probably for the best.

Doesn't know if it's the process of dousing herself with frigid water from the shower, or the way Lizzie's fingers go to her flat, smooth stomach, but it brings about a realization well enough that she lets the freezing drops drip into her eyes and soothe everything that she doesn't have a name for—

And her chest stops convulsing.

And the world stops spinning, yes, but—

Everything become very still.

Even with the water, even with Rory's piercing, stricken cries still echoing like a war drum in her ears; haunting, haunting, everything is haunting, but still, in the stillness—

Lizzie becomes very, blissfully numb.

/

Elizabeth combs through her hair but doesn't flinch at the wet, wrenching pull of the brush through her matted locks.

Doesn't even notice, really.

/

She finds The Fulcrum in her hands, even if she doesn't remember how it got there.

Turns it over, and over, and thinks, and thinks, and thinks, _for something the size of my pinkie, you'd have the capability of bringing life into the world. Without The Fulcrum there would be no Red in my life, no Rory, no Sammy. _

Lizzie thinks about smashing it with a hammer.

Lizzie thinks about swallowing it whole.

Then, Lizzie thinks about wheelbarrows.

Somehow, when Red knocks at the door, without thought to rhyme or reason or call to warm, Lizzie knows with every fiber of her being it's him. She can sense him. Like the way a dog knows its master.

Choke chained around her throat, holding, holding, _haunted, haunted. _

/

Later, she'll never quite know what well of energy she draws from in order to produce a voice that's normal sounding, in order to say and act the way she would under normal circumstances, because the truth is:

She now looks at every part of him as sacred, as something holy, because in another life—

In another life, they ripped him apart, blew him up, and—

It's silly, how the mere mention of Madeleine Pratt has a cold claw prickling down her spine, has her narrowing her eyes because Red says talents like he's speaking of beauty, and no, no the world isn't better with Maddie in it; it's better with Red in it. Red makes the world brighter, and he says they're going to find Madeleine Pratt, so even if a part of her is silent as death, and another part is hissing like a jealous feline over territory, and another is screaming hysterically because he's breathing and Rory won't have to cry anymore because he's coming home, Daddy's coming home—

(She's really not fine.)

/

And then he's taken, and—

Don doesn't need to know, and Cooper doesn't need to know, and Aram would never understand, and yes, yes, there's Samar, and Samar says something stupid to which Lizzie wants reply, want to scream in the woman's face: _of course I want him back because he's a whole part of my world and everything is very dark when he dies. You don't understand. I know what it's like when he's dead; I know that in a world where Raymond Reddington is dead I want to find the nearest razor blade and come find him._

_I know, but you have no clue._

She manages to swing the undercover assignment. For love of everything she's ever had, she manages to swing it with Cooper.

/

When she dresses designer and carries her pretty purse, Lizzie wonders if, in the other life, Red and she ever created aliases for fun, spent weekends as aristocrats because that would've been their own adult-version of dress-up. If they fucked in expensive hotel rooms. If by 2017, if in less than two years she and Red will be screwing in an expensive hotel room and if, by some fray, they'll make a life and that life will come to be known as Rory, as the child of fire and heart. It wasn't real, but it could be. This, being this woman going to this action isn't real, but it could be.

That's how she plays the role so well, in the end— what with the car, and the jewelry.

It's all about believing.

/

Until the boy. Until she's sauntering through a room of monsters and suddenly stops like a deer in a truck's lights because she sees a boy with innocent eyes, practically shaking in his little suit, and—

One of the brothers explains it to her, who he is, why he's there, and all she can think is—

It literally makes her stomach roll, thinking of anyone ever using Rory as leverage. Selling her to the highest bidder, selling her and—

Lizzie has to walk away, but then she has to go and write checks she can't cash, and Tom had said to sneeze so she does, but—

The sight of Red is like the only bright light in miles and miles of darkness.

Still, miles and miles 'til they're safe again.

"You changed your hair," he starts, and their eyes meet, and oh, how in that moment, that singular second— how she wants to kiss him so. Both cheeks. Nose, forehead. Taste his lips to see if they're as delectable as the churn in her gut tells, as the slight of his thin, pink smirk.

And by God, she's never felt her heart sing so much as that look they share that tells her to _run, run, run._

/

She finds a way to him, despite it all.

Lizzie strides through the holding room and spits terse comments because yes, she's found him, and yes, she can get home out because he's close enough to touch if not for the glass, but there's still monsters in this mansion that seems more like a dungeon of greed, and Lizzie smacks at the lock, and he's saying something, he's—

"Go," he murmurs, looks her in the eye.

Smiles, and no. _No, no, no. _

But she can't cry. There's no more tears left, and he says, "You did all you can."

And no. No. Rory. Rory and Sam. They don't exist, but they never will, they never will, and Red can't—

She can't leave him, she won't, but—

"Take the boy and go," he tells her, and then she remembers the innocent eyes, and she realizes.

She realizes that sometimes sacrifice really is an ugly, awful thing.

/

But then she can't. She literally can't. Every cell quakes. Every atom combusts, because she can't leave him to die, can't—

She tells the boy to run because if it had been Rory—

Well, it wasn't Rory.

It wasn't Rory.

/

"Lizzie," she hears, but he doesn't know she hears it.

His eyes, though, his eyes are what get her. Because then that wild imagination has to go and construe a universe wherein she could have saved Red from the bomb, could have come at the last minute and brought their world anew, and he would've come home to Rory, come home to Sam, but—

But, no.

She remembers, starkly, that this is the real world, because later, when they're in the car:

He says, "Don't ever do that again."

She hears, "Don't ever do that again, because you mean more to me than my own life."

Raymond Reddington doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand that without him, her life means nothing, too.

He doesn't understand, and he probably never will because love like this hurts, and a tear rolls down her cheek. It tastes bittersweet in her mouth.

/

Wiping off the gold leaf and caked mascara, taking out the studded diamonds worth more than she makes in six months. Lizzie pads over to her lumpy king and sinks her head onto the pillow, blinks up at the popcorn ceiling. Waits. Waits.

And yes, she does dream.

But it's not what she expects.

Not really.

/

It's weird.

She opens her eyes to blinding bright, to the sound of sprinklers. To giggling.

She opens her eyes and she's careened into a wooden porch swing, the oak all pretty and stained dark. The view of a beautiful day, wispy white clouds, facing her front yard that looks moved and quaint. She studies the hem of her blue jeans shorts, and slowly, steadily, she raises her head.

It's Sammy that's laughing.

Oh, oh.

There's a puppy.

Rottweiler, by the looks of it. Huge, awkwardly proportioned paws. Bounding limbs.

"Zeus," he babbles, grinning toothily.

And oh, if she'd though Sammy looked like Red as more baby than toddler, now he's got this head of blonde curls, and his eyes are, his eyes are—

Further out, she sees the blurring mass of Rory before she comprehends what's happening.

To Sammy the puppy, to Rory the bike.

A pink, floral print helmet. No training wheels, and Lizzie can see, from afar, the sweat that has broken out upon her daughter's tanned, flushed skin. Rory is trying to learn how ride her bike, and—

And it hits Lizzie, all at once, why she's learning alone, and Lizzie stands, moves, because it's her daughter, and if even if Red isn't here, that doesn't mean—

"Mommy, no!" Rory snaps, and Lizzie steps back at the way her daughter's head whips toward Lizzie, the scowl on the little girl's face. Such attitude for one so young, and even though her heart wilts at the idea of Rory rejecting her, the next words that float across the yard makes pride bloom in her eyes.

"I'm good, Mommy. I _can _do it."

Lizzie knows, then, that this dream is so weird and random because it rings so true.

It takes more than Lizzie thought to sit back down.

To watch instead of help like every ounce of her instinctually wants to do.

/

Lizzie gasps when it happens.

Balance is finally sought in tandem with mind, and Rory moves the peddles just so that she goes, she goes, she goes, and Lizzie goes to shriek her excitement, hands flailing in the air—

Until in the next moment, when the mechanism of her petite legs locks up, and Lizzie realizes the reason why children are taught alongside their parents is because—

Rory doesn't know how to stop.

/

Truth be told, Elizabeth Reddington was probably more terrified than her daughter when the ground won. Sammy started towards his sister's crumpled form on chubby legs, but Lizzie waved him back, telling him "Sissy's fine. Sissy's fine."

Rory didn't even cry, not really.

Just whimpered. Slight, muffled.

The sound breaks Lizzie's beating heart.

/

The journey from the driveway to the porch is inexplicably long, due to the circumstances. Rory is so light, limp like a ragdoll. Liz shifts Rory so that she can hold her and manipulate her form easily, heaves onto the steps. Something within her makes her want to stay on the porch, though, so she does.

Miraculously, there's no blood.

Just a nasty looking road rash that Rory winces at when Lizzie prods at it.

"Mommy, it hurts." Rory speaks simply, no hint of child in her cadence. It would worry Elizabeth, if not for the way Aurora _does _jerk from the pure emotion of the moment. Lizzie manages to get Rory across her lap in a way that begs protective. Her daughter's head tilts against her shoulder, little pants in her ear. They'd gotten rid of the helmet first thing, so now Rory's blonde locks are wild and unruly. Everywhere. Lizzie's never seen so much hair.

"Shh," Lizzie comforts, even if Rory is in no way hysterical. "It's going to be alright."

Lizzie moves her feet so that the motion rocks them.

At the perfect moment, a gentle breeze slithers through the vicinity.

Feet away, Zeus barks happily at Sammy's tug-of-war.

Rory, after a few moments, all contemplative, takes Lizzie's scarred hand in her own tiny one.

"Am I going to get a brave mark?" she wonders aloud.

The slight, tickling scratch of Rory's baby fingers against a place so secret on her hand makes Lizzie shiver, but more confusion that clouds her expression. Brave mark.

"What?" Lizzie inquires sweetly, curious.

"A brave mark," Rory says again, shrugging her slight shoulders. "Like you."

Lizzie watches Rory focus solely on the mangled skin, watches her beautiful, green eyes widen as if the sight is a wonder of the world. Some great feat. A scar.

A brave mark, because Rory thinks that in order to get a scar, you have to be—

"Like Daddy," Rory whispers under her breath, so soft that Lizzie barely catches it.

When she does, her brow slackens. Mouth parts. Because—

Well, of course Red has a scar, too. Of course he does. It's silly, but it's just in the phrasing, and Lizzie shakes her head at her own convoluted thinking, narrows her eyes thoughtfully at her daughter. Clarification couldn't hurt, could it?

"Do you remember where Daddy's…brave mark was, Rory?"

Rory's gaze meets Lizzie's own, and Rory's head cocks as she nods, twists in Lizzie's arms. "Uh huh."

Rory is silent for a moment, before languidly, she moves to motion on Lizzie's body. Teaching. Remembering. Waveringly, as if she's seeking Lizzie's approval, she touches Lizzie's upper-right shoulder and says, "Here."

Lizzie's chest, too near her heart. "Here."

Lizzie's stomach. "Here."

And then, and then.

And then, with all the certainty of someone reciting a birthday, telling the color of the sky; Aurora Reddington lays her hand flat across the part of her mother's back that she can reach. Runs her hand across it, closes her little eyes tight like she's remembering such a sight, and:

"Here, remember? All over. _Here." _

Lizzie blinks back tears, cheeks the color of milk.

"You said Daddy thought I'd be scared of it, but I wasn't," Rory tells, reminiscing. "It just meant he was really, really brave. Just like you. Your brave marks matched, Mommy."

Rory smiles, and Lizzie, see—

Lizzie understand what all this means, she does.

She and Red's scars match. They have the same scars.

The same fire. Leaving a man she thought was her father to die, but it wasn't, and Red has never lied to her. The missing puzzle piece, the honey in the lion. Every ghost she's ever met all at the same table, and Lizzie's soul ripples, Lizzie's soul aches at the very thought of the man with the scarred back, the man that has sacrificed so much for her. The man that she loves more than the stars, more than the moon.

Almost as much as she will, one day, love their children.

Lizzie looks at their daughter, looks into Rory's eyes, and tries very hard to smile back.

"I love you so much," Lizzie breathes out, ragged. Overcome. She tugs Rory closer to her chest, holds her like she'll never let her go again. Sammy is gone, and Lizzie senses this.

Sammy is gone, but she's still calm, and Lizzie feels Rory lean back, lean so that she can meet her mother's eyes with all the wisdom most people never possess in one lifetime, let alone the first few years of life. And Rory looks at Lizzie, and Lizzie looks at Rory, and there's understanding, there's knowing.

There's the plain fact that all of this is getting ready to end.

"You have to go, Mommy," Rory tells Lizzie.

She doesn't sound one bit sad.

Rory leaves a kiss on Lizzie's right cheek, and Red once spoke of a burst of sunlight, but Lizzie had never known, until then. Never empathized.

"I'll see you again," Rory whispers in her mother's ear. "I promise."

/

When Lizzie wakes in her bed at four minutes 'til six, a shitty motel with a lumpy bed, alone, she somehow knows that it's done.

That she'll never dream— of Rory, of Sammy— again.

/

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fin.

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**A/N: I am deliberately leaving this open-ended because I can't stand things that are so blatantly AU, but no worries if you were upset that there was no "official" reconciliation and fluff/smut. There will be. In the epilogue, which is coming up next. THANK YOU to anyone that has read, reviewed, favorite, or followed this story. Your support has been such a blessing to me. Thank you. Thank you.**


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